


Beyond the tower

by Redpandalavellan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M, POV Alistair (Dragon Age), POV Warden (Dragon Age), POV Zevran Arainai, oneshots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23400355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redpandalavellan/pseuds/Redpandalavellan
Summary: A collection of oneshots about my warden Andor Surana
Relationships: Alistair & Male Surana (Dragon Age), Alistair & Warden (Dragon Age), Zevran Arainai/Male Surana, Zevran Arainai/Male Warden, Zevran Arainai/Warden
Comments: 20
Kudos: 13





	1. Wild

**Author's Note:**

> Andor exists in the same worldstate as Thedran and Lyendrin if you're curious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor spent almost his whole life studying magic in the circle tower, but he's never seen magic like this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as part of an inktober challenge, by writing a oneshot every day rather than drawing something  
> The prompt was "Wild"

Andor picked up his bowl and walked to the edge of the camp, where Morrigan sat around her own small campfire, isolated from the rest of them. She looked up quizically as he came and sat on the ground opposite her, but didn't protest his presence.  
They ate in silence for a few moments, until Andor gathered the courage to speak.  
"Morrigan?"  
He asked, looking up from his food.  
"Yes?"  
"Can you teach others to shapeshift?"  
The question had been on his mind for weeks.

Early into their journey they had been cornered by a group of darkspawn as they travelled through the outskirts of a forest. Andor dispatched a genlock and turned, only to come face to face with a giant spider, bearing down on a nearby hurlock.  
The sight made him panic. He hadn't seen or heard the spider approach, he didn't even know there were giant spiders in this area. The only other times he'd seen one was clearing them out of the storage rooms in the circle. Were there more of them? How long would it be before they turned their attention from the darkspawn to the party?  
The spider finished of the hurlock with a savage bite to the neck, and then turned towards Andor.  
He raised his staff instinctively, mana already pooling around the end, but before he could land the charged blow the spider began to shimmer and morph before his eyes. The sight made him feel nauseous, and he hesitated, and a second later Morrigan stood before him with a stormy expression.  
"Don't attack me!" She reprimanded fiercely. "Save your attention for the darkspawn!"

Since then he had watched carefully whenever Morrigan transformed, and wondered about the spell. He hadn't heard of anything like it during his time in the circle, and considered if this was the kind of dangerous forbidden magic they had warned against. But the longer he observed the more uncertain he became. He was fascinated by the unfamiliar magic, and it didn't seem evil or corrupt. In fact it seemed incredibly useful, the ability to change your shape to fit the situation as needed, and the chance to experience the world in a completely new way. He had discussed it with her on a few occasions and she had undoubtedly noticed his keen interest, but said nothing.

She stared at him for a long moment and then answered with another slow question.  
"By others, do you mean yourself?"  
He pushed his stew around with the end of his spoon, avoiding her questioning gaze.  
"Possibly."  
"Then I shall teach you what I can whenever we are in camp. Provided you have the will to even make the attempt that is."  
He looked up in surprise at her and smiled gratefully.  
"Thank you."

Over the following weeks they trained in the evenings whenever they set up camp. It was difficult. He had no trouble summoning the will to cast the spell, and understood the theory well enough, but the transformation required an intimate knowledge of the animal you wished to transform into. Andor had lived his whole life in the circle tower, only ever reading about wild animals in books. Morrigan had lived her whole life in the wilds, and knew the habits and traits of animals much better than he did. She quickly became frustrated with him, but even so continued to teach.  
When travelling he would watch the creatures in the undergrowth with new intensity, trying to understand them in a way he hadn't before.

Another evening like the rest they stood by the fire and practiced. He watched as Morrigan closed her eyes, raised her staff, and in a flash a large spider was standing where she had just been. It circled in place for a moment, and then disappeared as suddently as it had arrived, leaving Morrigan stood once more in the spot.  
"You see?" She encouraged. "Just imagine yourself as the spider is. Will yourself into its form, your body is yours to command so command it!"  
He only huffed in response, already in a bad mood. The day had been long and tiring. They had travelled far and gotten into multiple confrontations with bands of darkspawn. A deep wound ached on the side of his leg where a shriek had sliced deep with its claws. The taint already in his blood made sure the blight wouldn't kill him, but it didn't make the sensation of dying flesh any more pleasant, and the amount of fighting they had done left him too tired to heal the complex wound with a spell.  
Yet still they stood here and she expected him to transform. If he couldn't do it before he certainly wasnt going to manage it now in this state.  
The others watched them from afar with curiosity as they did most nights, and he could feel Stens disapproving eyes boring into him as he tried and failed to cast the spell once more.  
Morrigan sighed.  
"I told you I would teach provided you had the will to make the attempt. Perhaps you simply do not. Clearly the circles don't teach their mages to such high standards."  
Morrigans disapproving tone made Andors cheeks burn with shame, but something she said gave him an idea.  
"Hold on." He muttered, raising his staff one more. "Let me try again."

He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, casting aside the mental image of Morrigans transformation and the giant spiders they had seen in the forests. It was simply too unfamiliar to him, he couldn't grasp the shape like she could. Instead he recalled the last day he spent in the circle tower, shooting arcane bolts at the large cave spiders at the request of the senior enchanter. He recalled the way their black eyes glinted when the magical light shone past them, the soft tapping noise their feet made on the hard floor and they approached suddenly from behind, the searing pain when one had leapt bodily onto him, its hairy legs pinning him down and its sharp fangs sinking into his skin through his robes.  
He felt the rush of magic through him and he opened his eyes. His vision was strange and blurred, the colours muted and distorted, and he found he had to look up to meet Morrigans eyes from where he crouched on the ground.  
His other pairs of eyes swiveled to stare at her and the focus became clearer, making out the satisfied smile on her face.  
"Finally!" She sighed and he realised he didn't hear the sound but rather felt it, the hairs on his many legs vibrating in rhythm with the noise.  
Before he had even a few seconds to comprehend the change, the spell faltered. He felt a strange tugging sensation and suddenly he was laid face down on the ground, in elven form once more. He panted into the dirt, completely exhausted, and heard Alistairs cheering suddenly cut off and the sound of rattling armour approaching him.

"Well, it's a start." Morrigan said from above him and he pushed himself over onto his back, arms splayed wildly to the sides, to look up at her expression.  
Any hopes he had of approval were quickly squashed by her usual unimpressed expression, but his own joy at finally executing the spell was hard to suppress.  
"Andor! Are you alright?" Alistair hurried over with a concerned expression, and once he recieved a tired smile from Andor turned to glare at Morrigan.  
"I knew we shouldn't trust you, I told you you were pushing him too hard!"  
He said angrily and Morrigan simply rolled her eyes.  
"He asked to be taught. Do we expect the darkspawn to simply wait patiently until we are ready to fight them? We must make every effort to improve if we wish to survive this."  
Alistair was about to reply but Andor spoke up from the ground.  
"Really Alistair I'm fine." He said between breaths. "Just give me a hand."  
He held up one arm and Alistair pulled him to his feet, supporting his weight across his shoulders.  
"Thank you for teaching me Morrigan." He inclined his head with gratitude and Morrigan nodded in response.  
"You're welcome. At least someone understands what we face." She said with a pointed look at Alistair. "We'll practice more another time, but at least now you're making progress." She picked up her own staff, before turning around and disappearing into her tent.

Alistair huffed angrily in response but simply turned and helped Andor back to the main campfire.  
He leaned against a log as Alistair changed the bandage on his leg, now weeping and covered in mud. Alistair winced as he saw the wound underneath and Andor simply sighed.  
"That bad, huh?"  
"I don't understand." Alistair muttered as he cleaned and re-bandaged the gash, Andor gritting his teeth against the stinging pain.  
"You're a healer. Why run around trying to turn into a spider and leave this to fester?"  
Andor was silent for a few seconds, trying to find the words to explain what it meant to him, why he was so desperate to prove he could learn new ways.  
"I spent my whole life in the circle." He shrugged. "I've never had the chance to be anything other than what they allowed. This is new, it's different, it's..... wild. For someone who's never even been outside before..... I just wanted to know I could be more than they made me."  
Alistair looked up at him, surprised by the sincerity of his words, and Andor turned away feeling slightly awkward.  
"Well, you've done it now." Alistair replied eventually, tying off the end of the bandage. "So take it easy alright? I'd rather you didn't drop dead before we even get to the archdemon."  
Andor laughed.  
"Of course. You'd all be dead within a week if you didn't have me constantly patching you up."  
"Hey!" Alistair protested. "Who's patching who up now?"  
Andor conceded with a nod.  
"Alright, you've got me. I'll be careful."  
"Good."

He said goodnight and retired to his tent, but as he laid in his bedroll he couldn't stop thinking about the transformation. For just a moment he had been something else entirely and the experience was exhilarating.  
For the first time, he found he was glad he had left the circle.


	2. Mindless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor eventually returns to the circle tower, but the state he finds it in makes him almost wish he hadn't

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another of the inktober prompts, this time less of a oneshot and more of a creative writing exercise

Over and over they appeared. He could do nothing but watch as their monstrous forms twisted and bulged when they turned a corner. He stared into eyes containing only pain and sin and wondered if they remembered him. Do such creatures feel betrayal?

Over and over they ran at him. He could do nothing but defend himself and watch as Alistair cut them down with a practiced hand. He patched up Alistairs wounds and wondered if he would ever be on the other end of the blade. Would friendship stand in the way of necessity?

Over and over they fell. He could do nothing but dodge and watch as the plush carpets were splattered with blood. He drank a lyrium potion and wondered if the stains would ever be removed. Could magic ever clean this place?

Over and over he recognised them. He could do nothing but bite his lip and watch as a familiar robe went up in a plume of flame. He closed his eyes and wondered if an abomination could still return to the maker. Did a mages soul deserve redemption?

Over and over they tore at him. He could do nothing but scream and watch as claws rent his skin. He collapsed to the ground and wondered if he would die in the circle like he once expected. Can such mindless horrors give mercy?


	3. New experiences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor kept to himself in the circle. Jowan was his only friend, and that ended horribly, to say nothing of romantic involvements.  
> So when he finds himself breathless every time a certain elf so much as looks at him, he looks for some friendly advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it didn't take long for these to become non chronological. I'm going to try and insert this where it should go in the story, apologies to anyone who's already read the later oneshots, my brain doesn't work on the proper timeline

Alistair sat a little ways away from the camp, needing the space to lay out his armour and scrub off the grime without covering the rest of the party's belongings in gore. Andor sat with him, watching him work without comment, lost in his own thoughts and occasionally sparing long glances towards the main fire where the rest of the party sat in conversation. Eventually Alistair put down the rag, sighing from the expended effort, and turned towards Andor.

  
"You're quiet tonight. Quieter than usual anyhow, I've heard Sten say more than you have since we pitched camp."  
Andor turned to face him, seemingly surprised out of his own mind and Alistair flashed him a friendly smile.  
"Copper for your thoughts?"  
Andor looked down at the ground, contemplating something unknown, and then lifted his head towards Alistair with a questioning tone.  
"So... you were raised in the chantry right?"  
Alistair nodded, turning back to his work, trying to work out the congealed hurlock guts embedded in the joints of his plate.  
"That's right, why do you ask?"  
"Well, if you grew up in the Chantry, have you never...?"  
Andor let the question hang unfinished and Alistair raised an eyebrow with a grin.  
"Never...? Never what? Had a good pair of shoes?"

  
Andor could hear the amusement in his voice and rolled his eyes, a smile coming to his own lips.  
"You know what I mean." He insisted, but Alistair continued to be evasive, enjoying every second of seeing the blush rise to Andor's face.  
"I'm not sure I do. Have I never... seen a basilisk? Ate jellied ham? Have I never licked a lamppost in winter?"  
Andor leant back and folded his arms, narrowing his eyes at Alistair who had abandoned his task in favour of his new game.  
"Now you're making fun of me."  
"Make fun of my comrade in arms? Perish the thought."  
Alistair fixed him with a pointed gaze, clearly unwilling to let the matter go just yet as he emphasised each word carefully.  
"Well, you tell me. Have you ever licked a lamppost in winter?"

  
Andor was silent for a moment, considering his words, but Alistair was a friend, and as much as they joked he saw no reason to be dishonest. So he played along, smirking at the grass below as he made his reply.  
"No, I've never licked a lamppost in winter."  
Alistair seemed almost relieved by his answer, grinning as Andor met his gaze once more.  
"Good. I hear it's quite painful. I remember one of the younger initiates did it on a dare once. And there was pointing and laughing... oh the humanity."  
Andor greeted this only with an air of confusion, suddenly not quite certain what they were talking about anymore, until Alistair continued.  
"I too have never done, it. That. Not that I haven't thought about it of course. Just, you know."  
"Never had the opportunity?" Andor ventured and Alistair was quick to offer explanations.  
"Well, living in the Chantry is not exactly a life for rambunctious boys. They taught me to be a gentleman. That's not so bad, is it?"  
His voice was anxious, betraying insecurity and a need for reassurance, but Andor only replied in a vaguely distracted tone.  
"No... I suppose not."

He was no longer really listening, his gaze wandering to where Zevran sat with his back to them, in conversation with Wynne. He talked with great animation, flashing a dagger in one hand as he waved his arms, illustrating whatever point he was making, too far away to hear, though Andor could hear the faint tones of his laughter and that was enough to send a thrill through his chest. He followed the delicate braids across the curve of his head and thought not for the first time about running his hands through that soft blonde hair.  
Alistair noticed his distraction, and looked from Andor to Zevran and back.  
"You... you don't ask just out of curiosity do you? You want to.... With him."  
Andor turned with a startled expression quickly hissing a protest under his breath.  
"Shut it!" He glanced sideways, but Zevran didn't seem to have heard them, making no change from the story he was telling.  
"I-" Andor began to speak and then faltered, biting his lip as he tried to give form to the thousand thoughts swirling within him.

  
"Listen... Andor... are you sure this is a good idea? What you two are doing?"  
Andor broke from his thoughts with a frown.  
"What?"  
"We've all noticed the way you carry on with him. Are you sure we can trust him?"  
Alistair repeated, glancing sideways in the elf's direction. Andor bristled at the remark, immediately coming to his defence.  
"Oh of course, because he's an elf we must be suspicious."  
"What?" Alistair threw his arms wide, the bloody rag still clutched in one hand. "No! Because he's a trained assassin who was paid to kill us!"  
Andor grunted at the point, sullenly forced to concede but refusing to back down from his stance.

  
"He failed, and he owes his continued life to us now. He swore an oath to serve me, and I believe him."  
"Oh I bet you want him to serve you." Alistair replied with a tone somehow both suggestive and disapproving and the furious blush reddened on Andor's cheeks. "And his charming flirting and pretty face has nothing to do with your trust I expect."  
Andor took offence at his sarcastic comments, hissing his response with a steady frown.  
"I'm not so easily swayed by my emotions, Alistair! If I truly thought he posed a danger to us, I wouldn't let him stay, no matter how pretty he might be. He's loyal, I would bet my life on it."  
Despite Andor's fervent protests, Alistair seemed to remain unswayed, continuing to argue in quiet tones.  
"I get the impression he knows nothing of loyalty, but you intend to bet all our lives on it anyhow. Are you sure this is the man you wish to be involved with?"  
He frowned, eyes fixed on the grass beneath his feet as he tried to come up with another argument, until he felt a sudden pressure on his shoulder.

He flinched in surprise as Zevran spoke from where he leaned against him.  
"My ears are burning. What are you two discussing, hm?"  
He let out a relieved sigh.  
"Maker above, Zevran, don't scare me like that."  
Andor turned to face him with a smile, a flutter in his stomach even from the close proximity as the other elf held his face inches from Andor's own. He found himself entranced by the curves of black ink down the side of his cheek and how the skin bunched as Zevran grinned in response. "My apologies, I cannot help my curiosity when I hear myself being talked about, and it is simply habit to move lightly and silently. I would not be much of an assassin if my marks saw me coming, no?"  
Andor spared a glance at Alistair who looked suddenly mortified, returning to his work with renewed intensity and trying to ignore the redness around his ears. Andor silently prayed Zevran hadn't heard too much and only replied with a slightly awkward smile. "We were just talking strategy." He said, attempting to remain casual, and Alistair jumped in quickly with agreement.  
"Yes, that's right. Strategy. For battles and such. With darkspawn."  
He certainly had no career as a spy, and Andor had no doubt Zevran didn't buy a word of it, but Zevran simply hummed in an appreciative tone.  
"Ah, strategy, I see."

  
He let out a dramatic sigh, clearly content to leave them to their secrecy without a fuss and move on to whatever next whim had taken his fancy. Andor couldn't tell if it was indifference or if he had simply already heard enough to know exactly what had been said, but he was grateful Zevran had decided not to press the issue. Lying and confrontation still made his stomach turn.  
"Wynne, cruel as she is, still will not let me rest my weary head on her magical bosom."  
Alistair stifled a laugh, and Zevran dropped his voice to a whisper, leaning close to Andor's ear one more, and Andor could barely hear the words over the pounding of his own heart.  
"Perhaps you will allow me to lay my head somewhere else magical instead?"  
Andor's breath stalled in his throat but just as swiftly Zevran stood up straight once more, wandering backwards a few paces away towards towards the main campfire, a confident smirk on his face and his eyes trained directly onto Andor's reddened face.  
"I would be grateful for your presence around the fire, lest I be forced to try and engage Sten in saucy conversation."  
Andor regained enough composure to smile and form a coherent reply, promising to join him in a moment as Zevran winked and finally turned his back to them in favour of the fire.  
For now though, he found himself preferring to stay and wait until Alistair finished cleaning his armour, and until he had calmed down enough that he could stand without embarrassment.


	4. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor was taken to the circle at the age of 6. He never had contact with his family after that, but that's the thing about family - they turn up in the damnest places.

Andor quickly searched the man's robe, eventually collecting a small ring of brass keys from an inner pocket. They were coated in something he'd rather not think about, but he couldn't bring himself to feel particularly guilty about the gruesome death of a man like this. He had it coming.  
Zevran continued to loot the bodies of his lackeys that were now strewn across the room, likely pocketing anything he thought he could get away with. It didn't bother Andor. He knew Zevran wouldn't keep something truly important from them, and sovereigns meant little to him. He could hardly go shopping in their current situation after all.

  
As he approached the cage the elves inside retreated from him. He supposed the fear was natural. Once they would have been his community, friends and neighbours, but here and now all they saw was a foreign mage who'd just slaughtered a room full of people. Even if those people were Tevinter slavers, he doubted it was an encouraging first impression. They most likely didn't recognise 'Grey Wardens' at all.  
An older elven man with braided grey hair stepped forward and addressed him.  
"You don't look Tevinter." He began uncertainly. "Not that it means much. Are you one of them? What happens to us now?"  
Something about his voice was familiar, even if Andor didn't recognise his face.  
"Are you Valendrian?" He asked. "Shianni was looking for you."  
His eyes widened in joyful surprise at the mention of her name.  
"Shianni... did she send you here? Praise the maker! We will not trespass long on your good graces. Come, everyone, let's go home."

  
They filed past quickly. Some offered small words of thanks, others simply rushed to leave as soon as possible, giving Andor a wide berth.  
Before he could think much about it, his attention was demanded elsewhere.  
"Andor!" Alistair called, and Andor turned around to see him approaching with a hand clamped around his right arm, blood trickling from the joints in his armour.  
"A little help?"  
Andor sighed and motioned to Zevran, placing his staff on the ground.  
"Help me remove his armour." Andor asked.  
"Gladly." Zevran replied with a smirk as he fumbled with the leather buckles now slippery with blood.

  
Andor only replied with a louder sigh as he pulled a water skin from his bag and upended it over the now exposed gash, washing away the blood and sweat as much as possible. He gave the wound an experimental prod and Alistair winced.  
"It's not that bad," Andor said. "It's bleeding a fair amount but only shallow, give me a moment."  
He placed a hand over the wound, closing his eyes and muttering the familiar words under his breath as he felt the tug of magic flowing through him. After a few seconds he opened his eyes to see skin newly knitted together and Alistair nodded his thanks, moving the arm experimentally. A small headache began to form behind his eyes and he could feel the fatigue in his limbs, but he'd rather have Alistair in fighting shape in case of any more surprises.  
"Now if perhaps we could go one fight without me having to patch you up afterwards?" Andor raised an eyebrow and Alistair grinned.  
"And deprive you of your essential role to the team? I could never."  
Andor prepared another reply but before he could start Morrigan interrupted him.  
"If you two are quite finished, I believe we have a visitor."

  
Andor turned to see an elven man lingering by the base of the stairs, fidgeting nervously in place. He stared at Andor intently with dark brown eyes set in the same brown skin, and took his hand off the banister to brush a messy fringe of slightly darker brown hair away from his face.  
"Andor?" He asked quietly. "Andor Surana?"  
Andor retrieved his staff from the floor and approached the man slowly. Though he was taller and thinner than Andor himself, the resemblance was unmistakable.  
He stared into a face so much like his own, and found he had no idea who it belonged to. His memory failed him, and the uncertainly sent a wave of fear through him like little else he had experienced. He had never expected to see his family ever again, never wanted to, and here he stood looking at a man who shared his face and little else. He didn't know what to do.

  
"Yes." He replied eventually, finding his voice, and a grin spread across the other man's face. He was pulled swiftly into a hug and simply stood, overwhelmed, until the other man pulled back, still keeping his hands firmly on Andor's shoulders.  
"It's Ino. Surely you remember me?"  
A picture appeared in his mind of a small boy following him around the house, giggling as they went.  
"Ino!" Andor found himself smiling in a way he didn't expect.  
The others approached, curious at the exuberant reunion.  
"Are you going to introduce us to your fine friend?" Zevran asked and Andor shot him a glare.  
"This is my little brother Ino. Don't start."  
"A brother?" Alistair cut in with surprise. "You never said you had family here."  
"Yes well... I haven't seen them since I was a child. We aren't allowed any contact with people outside the Circle."  
His mood quickly soured but Ino didn't seem to notice.

  
"Look at you!" He felt the sleeve of his robe and marvelled at the fabric. "Is it true what the man said? You're a Grey Warden?"  
Andor nodded.  
"The blight is approaching fast, they came to the Circle seeking recruits and I was offered. It's a.... very long story but I'm here to unite the human forces to face the horde."  
Ino didn't seem to be listening, only staring in excited fascination like he had when they were children. Like he had when Andor had made sparks fly from his fingers to make him laugh, pulled the curtains with gusts of wind to impress him.  
"I never expected to see you again! Come on, I'll take you home, everyone will be thrilled to see you!"  
He talked quickly, excitement bleeding from each word, but Andor couldn't replicate the same joy.

  
"No." Andor said firmly with a shake of his head, and for the first time the smile fell from Ino's face.  
"No? What do you mean, no? Why not?"  
"What makes you think they want to see me? They sent me away once Ino. You said it yourself, you never expected to see me again, and if it wasn't for the blight you never would."  
He kept his voice calm and even but he couldn't meet Ino's eyes.  
"They didn't have a choice, Andor, of course they want to see you again."  
"Didn't they?" The anger made it's way slowly into his voice despite his best efforts. The feelings he had sat on for years threatened to break through.  
"Well perhaps I don't want to see them. They handed me over to the templars while I cried. I was a child! I didn't understand, I hadn't done anything except exist and they gave me up at the first opportunity!"

  
Anger began to colour Ino's face in return and the others backed away awkwardly at the raised voices.  
"They gave you a better life! You got a roof over your head, an education! You never had to worry about where your next meal would come from, never had to watch a sibling die because we couldn't afford the medicine!"  
The angry statement hit Andor like a punch in the gut. Which one of his siblings was dead? Could he even remember all of their names?  
"Here you stand in your fancy robes and you complain? How ungrateful can you be?"  
The words still burned in him, everything he'd wanted to yell at his parents since he was a child.  
"Ungrateful? I would trade all of that in a heartbeat to have what you had! You had a family! A home! They loved you!"  
Everything he had denied for years rose up to the surface, filling him with an anger he hadn't felt before. He wanted to scream and cry, tear the whole world down for how he had been treated. It wasn't fair! Magic had stolen his home from him, his family. He could have had a life here but instead the Maker had cursed him to live apart, to be rejected and alone.

  
As he shouted he realised that Ino was staring at him with a fearful expression. He looked down to see flames engulfing his fingertips, smoke blackening the wood of his staff where he gripped it tightly.  
He quickly regained his composure and dismissed the fire, shame filling him at his lack of control. He was no untrained apprentice, he knew better than to let his emotions overpower his focus. They were right. He remembered Jowan and the abominations at the tower, this was why he had to go.  
"You tell me to go home, to visit my family." He began quietly. "But they aren't mine, not anymore. Because I'm a mage, because I'm dangerous, I can't have those things."  
He finally looked up to meet Ino's gaze.  
"I have a job to do. You should get home before someone misses you."  
Ino stared for a moment, before turning around and running from the room with a parting comment that Andor would wonder about for nights to come.  
"You're right."


	5. Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two wardens discuss family, both given and found

The two men sat by the fireplace in silence.  
It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for them. They'd known each other for long enough now that the lack of words wasn't awkward, just a mutual understanding that sometimes nothing needed to be said.  
Andor couldn't express how glad he was to finally be able to spend his evenings in a comfortable chair with four walls around him, rather than a leaky tent and a bedroll on the hard ground.  
It reminded him of being back in the circle, curled up in an armchair in the library most evenings, letting the stories take him to places he could never hope to visit in person.  
Now he had seen those places, but somehow they didn't quite live up to the rosy picture the books had painted, and trying to remember the circle tower now brought forth a host of nightmares he'd rather forget.

A cup of tea sat ignored on a small table beside him, steadily going cold, while Alistair sat opposite him with a glass of something a little stronger.  
He was glad for these small comforts, the chance for clean clothes and a warm bed, but a part of him missed the emptiness of the forest. The quiet sounds of birds and insects instead of the muttering of servants, the knowledge that the only people around were the people he travelled with, the people he trusted.  
Now they were back in the city, and everything was complicated once more.  
The events of recent days ran circles around his head, constant questions of what he should have done and what he should do now, until he noticed Alistair watching him with concern.

"Sorry." He said with an abashed smile, turning his head. "Lost in thought."  
"Thought as much. I'd know that look anywhere." Alistair replied. "Though I suppose after the day we've had I can't blame you."  
Andor paused, embarrassment heating up his face as he moved to tuck his hair behind his ear.  
"Yes," he began hesitantly, "I'm sorry you had to see all that."  
"Don't apologise. I dragged you along to my dysfunctional family reunion too, after all."  
They both laughed for a moment, taking what brief seconds they could to pretend their familial woes could be reduced to nothing more than a shared joke.

"Why did you never mention you had family in Denerim?" Alistair began again as the laughter died. "We could have sought them out, still could if you like. You truly don't want to see them?"  
Andor sighed, unsure how much he wanted to say, unsure how much he could say without dissolving into a mess of magic like he had previously.  
"As far as I'm concerned, I don't have family in Denerim."  
"That bad?" Alistair replied, a mix of surprise and sympathy.

"I was six years old when I started showing signs of magic. My parents didn't notice at first. I was a middle child of seven, they were just too busy working or seeing to the others to pay attention to what I was up to. I suppose they wouldn't even have known enough about magic to spot the early signs anyhow."  
He took a sip from his tea, making a subtle face as he tasted the now luke warm beverage, but he'd rather have something in his hands as he spoke.  
"My older siblings noticed in the end though, and once my parents found out, they called the templars for me. Willingly sent me away forever."

There was a brief stint of silence as Andor tapped his fingers restlessly against the mug in his hands, resting it on his folded knees, until Alistair spoke again.  
"You haven't seen them at all since? They never even visited?"  
Andor sighed, the familiar justifications he had filled himself with over the years leaping forth to comfort him.  
"They couldn't have gone all the way to the circle tower. Some apprentices wrote letters to their families, but it was discouraged. They taught us that mages need to stick together, we're all each other has, and apprentices that still have ties outside the tower are more likely to try to escape."  
He turned to give Alistair a questioning look.  
"You trained as a templar, didn't you? Surely you know all this."  
Alistair only grinned.  
"Like I said, I never got very far in my training. Swinging a sword was one thing, memorizing rules and sections of the chant was rather another."

Andor chuckled.  
In another life, could the two of them have met in the tower instead? Alistair, a full templar, and him, a harrowed mage. Would they have had the same friendship even so? Part of him doubted it. Even the friendliest templars kept a certain distance from their charges, and most mages learned early to be wary. It was the one thing he disapproved of in the Circles’ practices.  
So often they treated each other like the enemy. Even Grand Enchanter Irving, the man he'd always looked up to as the example of a proper circle mage, had jumped at the chance to strike back at the Chantry, drag Lily down with Jowan. And Andor had played along, done as he was told, made certain the two of them were caught and punished despite their friendship.  
Would a few more years in the Circle have changed him too?  
Still, another part of him liked to hope that even in different circumstances the two of them would still get along. Elf and human, templar and mage, beneath it all just two men with a shared love of bad jokes and mabari, looking out for one another.

He glanced back to see Alistair was watching him again, a quiet sympathy in his face that Andor didn't quite know what to do with.  
"I'm sorry, it must have been hard. I remember how furious I was when Arl Eamon sent me away to the Chantry, and I was at least a little older."  
Andor was silent. He found the longer he talked about this, the more his anger faded, and the more his shame rose thinking about the way he had blown up at Ino earlier in the day.  
"They did the right thing. I was a mage, I had to go to the tower. I just..." he struggled for the words, one hand fiddling idly with the hem of his robes, "I gave them up long ago. It was how we all coped. Our old families were gone, all we had were each other in the tower, it made things easier. So then seeing Ino again, hearing him talk about them as if nothing had changed... I lost it. And that's exactly why I had to leave. If I lose control, Alistair, I don't just risk myself but everyone around me. Mages need to be properly trained and contained, we both know it."

Alistair avoided his eyes and stared instead back into the fire, with an expression that said perhaps he didn't completely agree.  
He didn't argue though, only turning back with a hesitant smile and a new suggestion.  
"You could visit them, you know, after all this is over. Maybe it was impossible when you were in the tower, but you're a warden now. Nobody can stop you from seeing them."  
Andor thought about it, really, truly, thought about seeing his parents again for the first time since he was a child.

He tried to picture their faces in his mind, but as the years had gone by he had found it harder and harder to do so. He hadn't even tried in so long, he couldn't be sure if the features he saw in his head were real or imagined. Did his mother have brown eyes or green? Both versions seemed right in his mind and a sudden fear gripped him to think that his family were such strangers to him now.  
He thought about his siblings. How many would still be left at home? Surely some had been married and moved out by now, perhaps gone to other alienages. Did he have nieces or nephews somewhere out there? Did they know who he was? Did his family still think about him, talk about him? Or had they driven him to the depths of their mind too, written him off long ago.

Ino's comment haunted him. The knowledge of how they had struggled, suffered in his absence. Did he dare go to them now? Flaunt his new position and status? Perhaps he could help them, or perhaps they would simply demand his coin and tell him to leave like Goldanna had done to Alistair.  
He wasn't sure he could stand it. To see them again only to be roughly sent on his way. Perhaps it was better not to try at all, not to take the risk.  
Nobody could stop him from seeing them, except maybe himself.

"Hm maybe."  
He muttered non-committaly, fingers fidgeting once more with a loose thread on the edge of his robe and eyes refusing to leave the carpet below them. Alistair seemed to notice his hesitance and cleared his throat in a way that made Andor glance up towards him again.  
"I'll go with you, if you're nervous. You did the same for me after all. U-unless you don't want me to that is. I wouldn't want to impose if you wanted to go alone, they're your family, I just-"  
Andor saw the way he was spiralling and felt an affectionate smile curl his features.  
"I'd like you to come." He reassured quickly. "If I'm to see them then they should meet you as well. They may be my family in blood, but the closest thing I've ever had to a true brother is-"  
He stopped short, glancing nervously at Alistair and then away just as quickly, unsure if his words would be considered too far.

Alistair stopped too, and when Andor looked back he was staring unashamedly, before clearing his throat and glancing away himself.  
The silence suddenly turned awkward, neither sure what to say, until they both tried to speak at once and the tension broke once more into nervous laughter.  
"Go on." Andor offered, trying to ignore the fresh anxiety in his chest. "What were you going to say?"  
Alistair paused, staring at his half filled glass before turning to smile softly at Andor.  
"I think of you as a brother too." 


	6. Swing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The landsmeet arrives, and Andor finally gets what he wanted for all this time. But not how he wanted it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short one today, from the inktober prompt "Swing"

The only thing he could think as he grasped the hilt of the blade was that he'd never held a sword before. Not properly, not to fight with. Alistair had teased him about it, said he couldn't tell the pommel from the pointy end. He wished it were true.  
The cool metal felt strange in his palm, an implement so unfamiliar. He was a mage, not a warrior. His arms shook even as he tried to lift it, though perhaps that wasn't due to the weight of the weapon.  
He wasn't a killer, not like this. He was a healer, a protector. Even when he had to fight it was always from a distance, impersonal. Spells didn't feel like this, stood eye to eye with a man as he waits for his end.  
Why did Loghain have to do this? He had betrayed the king, betrayed fereldan. He had wracked it with civil war on the brink of a blight, let his generals murder and torture, sold elven citizens into slavery, blamed the grey wardens for his own treachery and tried to have them killed.  
Andor should hate him, he wanted to hate him, he did hate him! He had taken so much from so many, and he deserved to die for the pain and grief he had caused.  
And yet here he knelt a repentant man. Offering respect and calm reverence in his final moments. Why couldn't he have played his part? Why do such terrible things only to surrender and allow justice to be served?  
Andor was supposed to be the hero. The grey warden surviving against the odds, uniting the nation against the evil tyrant and beating back the darkspawn hoard.  
This didn't feel heroic.  
All eyes in the room turned to watch him as he lifted the sword. Anora sobbed. Loghain closed his eyes.  
Andor swung the blade.


	7. Ultimate Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things must come to an end

They had been fighting for hours. The battle raged across the whole of Denerim but they had fought their way through it to the top of the fort, killing as many darkspawn as possible on the way. His staff weighed heavy in his hands and his robes were splattered with blood, both his own and that of the darkspawn. But this was it, the final battle. Everything would end here, one way or another.

The archdemon let out a piercing roar leaving the surrounding forces clutching their heads, unable to move. Andor too was stunned and could only watch in horror as the hoard of shrieks began to cut down the men who stood defenceless. He regained his senses and returned his attention to the best before him. The army he had gathered could deal with the darkspawn, the archdemon was the job of the Grey Wardens.

He saw Alistair, armour dented and bloodied, slashing at the beasts legs. It turned its head sharply and tossed him aside with its snout, sending him flying until he was dashed against the cobblestones of the battlements with a thud.  
He raised his staff but Wynne beat him to the punch. He turned as she glowed brightly, using the power of the spirit to channel a healing spell towards Alistair's broken form. Alistair slowly got to his feet, gave a grateful nod in their direction, and then charged back into battle once more.

Andor scowled slightly. "I could have done that." He muttered. "You should save your strength, that spirit won't last forever."  
Wynne smiled at him gently. "I am not some frail old woman, Andor, you need not fret so. Concentrate on the dragon, not me."  
"You know I will do my duty, Wynne. I will not return from this battle. I would prefer that you did."  
Without further explanation he ran forwards, placing himself in front of the beast. He sent arcane bolts towards its eyes, trying to draw its attention away from the rogue who danced around its tail.

Zevran.

Andor saw him darting in and out between the beast’s legs, slashing at its scales with twin daggers held in each hand. Even in the midst of battle he was beautiful, hair flying, blood splattered up his arms, eyes wild. Andor hated to see him put himself in such danger like this, but he would have refused to stay behind. And the thought of him alone with the forces down by the gates was worse. They needed to be here together, watching each others’ backs. Like always.

He could see that the beast was nearing its limit, blood covered its scales though you could hardly tell one shade of red from the other. Arrows protruded from a dozen places on its neck and body and its movements were slower, its attacks more desperate. For all its power it was now a cornered animal, attacking wildly.  
Blue flame consumed him but his wards repelled the worst of the heat. The fire dissipated and with smouldering robes he saw Alistair climbing up the neck of the thing. It bucked and twisted, trying to throw him off, but Alistair sank his sword into the creatures neck, again and again, until it collapsed with a scream.

Andor could scarcely believe his eyes, everything they had fought through to make it here, it was finally over, they would win! And he would die.  
He gripped his staff tighter with purpose, began to stride towards the beast, but Alistair stopped him.  
"Wait." He said. "Let me. There's no need for you to die. This is my duty, I should be the one to kill it."  
Andor stared in disbelief.  
"Why would you sacrifice yourself, Alistair?"  
"You know why. I didn't want to become king, but now I am. This is my duty. And this right here, is the best king I could be. My first and last act being to stop the blight before it really starts. No one could blame me for that could they?"

Andor saw the fear and doubt in his face. He couldn't quite tell which thought scared him more, death or having to rule. He smiled.  
"I think you would be a good king, Alistair."  
Alistair smiled in return, his tone jovial despite where they stood.  
"Really? Because I think I would be a piss poor king. I don't know the first thing about it." His face fell into a more serious expression. "Not to mention you're the best friend I could ever have asked for. I'd be dead if you hadn't saved my life a dozen times over by now. So let me save yours, just this once."

Andor didn't know how to respond. Alistair was like a brother to him, the first family he had ever known. He couldn't let him sacrifice himself. He had a new wife to return to, a kingdom to rule. Andor had nothing, the Wardens were all but destroyed, as was the Circle. He had no family or friends except the companions he had met on this journey. He would protect them, with his life if necessary.  
He heard Zevran approaching from behind him, the telltale sound of him scraping his knives clean against his armour and tutting quietly. Perhaps he had one thing.

"Why are we all stood around chattering like washerwomen?" He asked, leaning against Andor. Andor savoured the sound of his voice, the familiar Antivan accent setting his heart racing. "Let us kill the beast and move on to the revelry! I have much revelry planned, mi amor, and I am eager for us to get started."  
Zevran's breath was hot next to his ear and the feeling of him pressed close was enough to make Andor melt. In that moment he broke. He wished for nothing more than to return to the estate with Zevran. To hold each other close and never let go, to travel and dance and love. To spend their lives together. But it couldn't be. He knew that.  
Alistair's unsteady voice broke him from his reprieve. "You- you didn't tell him?" He asked quietly and Andor refused to meet his eyes.

He had wanted to tell him, of course he had. He had wanted to pour his heart out to him, to cry about the cruelty of the world. But he had a duty, if this was what it took to make the world safe then that was what he would do. He wouldn't waste the last night they had together in sadness or despair. He would not make Zevran suffer unnecessary guilt or worry, and he certainly wouldn't give him the opportunity to talk him out of it. He knew his love had a way with words, he had kept his life when they first met after all, and he wouldn't give Zevran the chance to convince him to flee, to let someone else make the sacrifice. This was his duty, he would pay the price.

Zevran stood up straighter, the pressure on Andors shoulder disappearing.  
"Tell me what? Andor, what is going on?" He asked, his voice filled with uncharacteristic concern.  
"I can't let you do it, I'm sorry." Andor said to Alistair and turned to Zevran with tears in his eyes. He kissed him passionately, savouring the last embrace they would ever share.  
"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I have to fulfill my duty. You'll have to do that revelry without me. I love you Zevran, please remember that."

How many times had he wanted to say it?  
It had been months since they first shared their nights, and Zevran had made it clear since the start that that was all it was. They could take pleasure with each other, joy and comfort, but what use did an assassin have for love?  
Perhaps he was right. That was the thought that had stopped him each time. Perhaps he didn't feel the same way, didn't want Andor’s love, that insisting would only push him away and lose for him the little happiness they shared.  
But if this was the last chance he'd ever get, he couldn't go without saying it out loud, at least once. That he could be loved, should be loved. That he was so much more, deserved so much more, than what the Crows led him to believe.  
Andor wished he had time to prove it to him.

"Mi amor, please, what are you-"

But Andor was already running.  
He snatched a sword from a nearby corpse, breaking into a dead sprint towards the beast before fear or longing could make him change his mind. It was beginning to stir, but he wasn't about to give it that chance, raising the blade high in both hands and letting out a yell as he plunged it into the archdemon's skull.  
A burning light shot into the sky and he screamed, his whole being consumed by it. He stood for what felt like hours, fire blazing in every part of his body, a commotion somewhere behind him that he couldn't quite make out.

Then the world exploded, and everything went black.


	8. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andor's experience of the battle of Denerim has been told, now it's time for Zevran's

Andor kissed him fiercely and he didn't object. Why would he? Andor was so rarely the one to instigate such forceful affections, and he certainly wouldn't turn down a celebratory embrace, after all they had accomplished. But something felt different about this, beyond just his lover's uncharacteristic initiative. Was he.... crying?  
"I'm sorry." Andor whispered, pulling away, Zevran's hands still wrapped closely around his waist.  
"I have to fulfil my duty. You'll have to do that revelry without me. I love you Zevran, please remember that."  
The words almost didn't reach his ears. Battle still raged around them, but Zevran could do nothing but stare at Andor's face.  
He loved him?  
At first he had cringed to hear the word love used, laughed it off as an unwanted impossibility, a child's dream with no place in the harsh reality they lived in. Andor had dropped it, never broached the topic again and instead reveled in their shared company and passion for the months that they travelled the country.

Fereldan was a dark place, damp and cold, nothing like his beautiful Antiva. But here was a man who felt like sunlight. The soft beams in a morning, accompanied with gentle kisses and quiet words, nothing like the boisterous nature of his people and yet still feeling so much like home. He cared for Andor in a way he'd cared for few others before, in a way that he didn't quite understand, and it terrified him.   
Did he love him? How would he know? All his life he had turned away from such things, hardening his heart as was necessary for his career. And yet here Andor stood before him and somehow he was well and truly speechless, for the first time since they'd met.  
But as the shock faded it was replaced by a growing dread within his chest. Why say this here, why now? Why was he crying?

"Mi amor, please, what are you-"  
He began to protest but Andor had already broken from his grasp, racing towards the fallen creature with a discarded sword in hand. He had barely the time to wonder what in the world he was planning before the mage plunged the blade down into the creature's skull with all the force he could muster.  
The light was sudden and blinding, and he flinched away on instinct, covering his eyes with his forearm. It took only seconds for him to right himself, blinking away the after image, but it was long enough for Alistair's firm hand to find his shoulder and keep him from racing forward. Which was likely a good thing, in retrospect, as not a few seconds later the light expanded rapidly, an explosion centred on Andor throwing them all to the ground.

He slowly forced himself to his elbows, blinking to try and fix his blurred vision and waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside.  
Stumbling to his knees, his eyes found their way to a robed figure lying limp on the ground next to the head of the archdemon, sword still embedded in its skull.  
"Andor!"  
The mage didn't stir at his shout, nor did he react when Zevran ran to his side, lifting his head and placing it gently in his lap. In fact he didn't move at all, not even the rise and fall of his breathing.  
"Wynne! Wynne do something!"  
His eyes desperately searched for an injury, a wound, something that could be fixed. It wasn't too late, it would be fine, he told himself. Andor had been injured before, and the old mage had cast a spell and had him back on his feet in no time, always citing the warden's uncanny resilience with a smile and then berating them for the recklessness of youth. But there was nothing, no gushing blood, no broken bones. Just Andor's limp form in his arms as Wynne placed a gentle hand on the back of his shoulder.  
"I'm sorry Zevran. He's gone."

"No."  
The words were forceful, desperate. An attempt to exert his will on the world like Andor had done so many times. The spells had been vibrant, flashes of colour and sound as he commanded the very fabric of the world around them, the only theatrical display Andor ever indulged in. He was always most alive when using his magic, despite how he might have tried to suppress it, and Zevran's mind simply couldn't accept the thought that he was gone, that it was over.  
"No, he's not dead, that's ridiculous. Come on mi amore, it's time to get up now. We won. It's time to go home."

It wasn't until his vision blurred once more than he realised he was crying, and despite his efforts he found he couldn't stop.  
The surrounding troops had begun cheering. He could hear them hollering as they cut down the fleeing darkspawn, now directionless after the defeat of their leader. He heard their joy as if through six feet of soil, remembered his own elation at the end of battle as if from a hundred years ago. Giddy heights replaced in a second by crushing dread.  
The sound of heavy armour behind him reached his ears, and it took only another second for the empty pain to fill in with fire.

"You knew."  
He rounded on Alistair, fury burning behind the tears in his eyes as he still clutched Andor's body close to his chest. He could see the grief echoed in Alistair's own face as he turned away from the accusation, unwilling to look him in the eye.  
"I- I honestly thought he would have told you... A grey warden has to die to kill the archdemon. It's the only way."  
Why had Andor kept this from him? How long had he known? The anger blazed deep within him as his fists tightened on Andor's robes, raw emotion with nowhere to go. All along they had walked side by side, smiled and joked and talked about the future, all knowing he was heading to his death. Why him? Why now? After all they had been through and all they had done. Was he so cruel to knowingly dangle such hope before his eyes? To let him love ever so briefly even knowing it would not be permitted to last?  
He had found a man so determined to give his life for the world, and Zevran would have traded it all in reverse just to keep him.

Another sob broke through his chest as he tried to speak, and eventually he gave up on words entirely. He curled in on himself, holding Andor close and crying into his hair as if the desperate longing could bring him back. As if the next moment he would sit up with a smile, brush away Zevran's tears with a caress so soft and tell him everything was going to be okay with a tone so sweet he could almost believe it.  
But no comfort came.  
No soft touch, no gentle embrace, no sounds except his own ragged breathing and the clashing of swords behind him as the last of the darkspawn fell to the celebrating troops.

There would be no celebration. Not for him.


	9. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone grieves differently. Nobody likes to see it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sad today so now everyone else gets to be sad too

"You're leaving?"  
Alistair had entered the doorway quietly, intending to seek the small comfort of conversation, and instead found the elf putting his last few belongings into his pack.  
"The Crows will be after me again soon enough. Now that-" He stopped abruptly, clearing his throat as if he had tasted something sour. "Well. It's best that I leave now and get a head start."  
The assassin spoke matter-of-factly as he picked up his daggers from where they laid on the bed. The daggers that Andor had given him. The mage always insisted on plying them all with the best equipment he could get his hands on, fretting that they'd get themselves hurt on his behalf if he didn't do everything in his power to protect them.  
Alistair had joked many times that he was worse than Wynne for mothering them all, that they'd all survive without his constant fussing. Now he wasn't sure.

"You're not even going to stay for the funeral?"  
An involuntary note of pleading found its way into his voice, echoing the pain that sat deep in his chest when he thought of the speech he would have to make, standing before the people to tell them of the demise of their hero. His best friend. His brother.  
But the elf didn't react, he only sheathed the daggers in the scabbards on his back without even turning around.  
"Do you even care at all?"  
The anger was building now, the grief grating on all his raw edges. He wanted to shout, scream, cry, rail against the world for all its unjust reapings far too soon.  
It was only made worse by the stark contrast in the man in front of him. Zevran simply stood quietly, the same as he had ever since they returned from atop Fort Drakon. Those first hours had been a blur, the last of the battle still raging around them, wounds to be tended and orders from the new king to be given. By the time they'd finally sat down together in the relative quiet of the palace, Zevran seemed already to be over it.

He had sat in silence when Alistair finally broke down, explaining the truth behind the slaying of the archdemon. No tears, no anger, no questions.  
It infuriated him.  
They had been lovers, hadn't they? All the sweet words and soft touches he'd seen them share, all for Zevran to just as quickly go on his way.  
"Don't think to know how I feel. I loved him."  
Zevran replied quietly, but still there seemed to be no emotion behind the words, just a flat monotone that only made Alistair angrier.

"Did you?"  
He spat the question like an accusation, voice raising involuntarily as he took a step forward.  
"Because you sure as hell didn't show it. I saw the way he looked at you, when you were too distracted by your own fucking narcissism to look twice. He never would have said it, but he didn't have to. He loved you and he didn't think you loved him back. Maybe if he did he wouldn't have done what he did."  
It was a cheap shot he knew, but the grief burned raw in his chest. It had to be someone's fault, someone had to be to blame for Andor being gone and him still being here, despite everything. And he couldn't live with himself if it was him.

He expected angry words, even a knife at his throat, but Zevran didn't even look at him, standing and staring at the ground for so long Alistair began to wonder if he would ever move again.  
"It should have been you."  
The words were forced through gritted teeth, and it hurt Alistair worse to know they were true.  
One of them had to die to fulfill their duty, to end the Blight. In death, sacrifice - that was the fate of a Grey Warden.  
But what good was he here without Andor? What good was a king who'd never led a damn thing in his life? Who deferred immediately to the skinny elf kid who'd never seen the outside of a circle, out of fear of making his own decisions.  
And he'd let Andor make this one too. Every time it mattered, he was unable to step up.  
It should have been him.

He was silent, his gaze fixed on the ground in shame as he unclenched his fists and Zevran brushed past him without another word.  
After that, he left the palace, the rogue disappearing without a trace into the night.  
What followed were only rumours. A masked assassin stalking the leaders of the Antivan Crows until four of them were killed inside of a year, but still he never emerged as a new master as many expected. No power grab, no revolution, simply a trail of broken bodies as he moved on.  
Few ever saw his face, and fewer still knew his name, but he became known by his distinctive appearance anyway. Stories passing between alienage elves who swore if you gave him food, a place to stay for the night, and perhaps enough coin scraped together, you'd wake to the news of the local harsh lord's untimely demise.  
They looked for him over the roofs of their tightly packed houses. A dark cloak, a crow mask, and a single jewelled earring, flashing in the moonlight, standing out among an outfit of black.


	10. Call them brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a decade since the end of the blight, and with new responsibilities weighing on his mind, Alistair looks to an old friend

Alistair tossed and turned in the bed. The hours crawled past, but sleep was denied to him no matter how long he laid there, staring at the intricate patterns embroidered into the sheets. Always too quiet, or perhaps not quiet enough. Either way, his mind wouldn't calm, leaving him bored and wide awake even as the moon rose higher in the sky.  
Eventually he stood and dressed, abandoning the thought of rest behind him as he slipped out of the room. It was better than the nightmares anyhow.  
Two guards made to follow him as he closed the door, but he waved them away, pulling a hood over his face as he made his way down quiet corridors and out into the night.  
The streets were almost deserted, late as it was. The people had taken to barring their doors at night, fearing what may happen to them if caught out in the dark. Redcliffe had seen far too much trouble in the past years for its citizens to relax so quickly.  
He passed a derelict farmhouse, curling vines reclaiming the timber as shattered windows laid unfixed, allowing the cool night air to whistle through cracks in a manner that might cause local whispers of ghosts or demons. Although noises weren't likely to be the cause of such rumours here.

He still recalled the night they spent in front of the chantry, standing between the undead and the villagers inside. They had travelled to Redcliffe straight from Lothering on his suggestion, to seek help from Arl Eamon and find out the truth about the rumoured illness that had befallen him. Nothing could have prepared them for what they found, the whole town under siege and the castle silent as the grave. But they had stood and fought, the wounds of Ostegar still fresh on their bodies and minds as once more they were assaulted by unholy creatures in the night.  
But that was the past, and he'd rather not think on what they had done that day to end the carnage, dark magic in a desperate place.  
Redcliffe had long since rebuilt what they could, with a hefty distrust of mages lingering behind. It didn't really matter that a mage was the one who saved them, if a mage was also the one who damned them. He pushed such thoughts back to the recesses of his mind, and then smiled as he beheld a familiar stony expression.

"Andor! It's been too long."  
He took a seat on the weathered stone, dropping his hood and shivering slightly as the cold seeped through his trousers. He paused a moment, taking a flask from his hip and raising it to his lips, relishing the burn that passed down his throat and provided him some measure of warmth against the chill of the night.  
"I'd offer to share," he said, raising the bottle in one hand, "but I know you don't much care for it."  
He looked down at the ground and a laugh escaped him, lips curving into a nostalgic smile.  
"Remember when I slipped some of Oghren's spirit into your tea? Maker that dwarf drank some strong stuff. It was funny watching you stumble and grin, until those hurlocks appeared and you singed my eyebrows off trying to fight them. Two weeks it took for them to grow back!"  
He waved a hand and then ran his fingers over his brow, as if confirming that they had in fact grown back.   
"Ah well, I suppose it was my own fault. And the raging hangover you had the next day was probably equal enough torment. By Andraste how Wynne yelled at me. I've never known an old woman with such a set of lungs."  
The memory seemed to steal him for a time, his eyes staring far beyond the shrubs of the town square until he dropped them with a sigh.  
"I am sorry though, for what it's worth. I'm not sure I ever said that enough."  
He stared at his boots a moment longer, quiet silence returning to the night ever so briefly until he snatched another thought as it passed, his previous animation returned.

"And I know what you'll say before you start!" He raised a hand in the air to ward off any protests as he suddenly raised his head, and then took up a slightly mocking tone.  
"Alistair, you have work to do, what are you doing out here drinking in the middle of the night!"  
He slipped back into his normal voice as he continued.  
"Well I've thought of that." He paused for dramatic effect. "Being a king is boring. There I said it!" He crossed his arms in front of his chest like a sullen child, upset with the world.  
"It's all meetings with nobles and putting on a show of strength with my darling wife."  
His nose wrinkled in disgust.  
"I'm rather convinced she'd get rid of me if she could. I'm nothing but a nusciance to her, but she knows my blood holds the favour of the people."  
He looked down at his own hands, as if he could see that very blood running through his veins, ask it how everything had ended up like this.  
"The only thing she wants from me is an heir and I haven't even given her that. Not that I haven't ah- tried."  
A blush came to his cheeks and he was reminded of earlier conversations, teasing voices and stumbling confessions.  
He smiled to remember it, the way they'd talked and laughed in those long evenings at camp, pretending the weight of the weight of the world could be set down for just a few moments while they giggled like children over something inconsequential.  
Simpler days, somehow.  
"Some say she must be barren, she never had children with Cailan either, but I'm not certain it isn't me. All the wardens I knew with kids, had them before they took their joining. What if the taint in my blood is too much? Who knows if it's even possible for me to give her what she wants."

He was quiet for a few seconds, staring down at the ground, absorbed in whatever was running through his sleepless mind.  
"This is your fault you know," he began suddenly, turning and pointing an accusatory finger, "don't think I've forgotten."  
The familiar mocking voice returned as his imitated Andor's convincing tone.  
"You should become king, Alistair. You should marry Anora, Alistair. It won't be terrible at all! Together you can rally the people and bring peace to the land!"  
He sighed, head dropping back down to the ground.  
"If only it were that easy."  
He ran his fingers idly over the stone, and for a moment he was almost humming a tune before once more his mind returned to his previous train of thought.  
"Maker, how did you talk me into this? I wanted to be as far away from responsibility as possible my whole life, and then one conversation with you and suddenly I'm engaged to my half brothers widow and set to become king of a nation." He laughed once more, a sad kind of chuckle escaping his chest. "You got pretty good at it throughout that year though. I would have followed you anywhere, done anything. You could probably have convinced me of whatever you wanted at that point."  
His shoulders dropped along with his voice, staring at a patch of grass as the sound cracked when it left his throat.  
"Like you convinced me to let you take that final blow."  
He turned his face upward, looking once more at the statue looming tall above him, and then he sighed and placed the back of his head against the cool stone.

"I wish I could talk to you about all this. You'd know what to do, you always did."  
He'd never wanted to lead, bad things happen when he leads, he always said as much. Right from the start he let Andor choose their direction, determine their plans. It seemed better that way, he always seemed to know where they should go next, who they should talk to, what they should do. And it worked, time after time he arranged alliances and dispatched enemies, helping as many as they could along the way.  
What he wouldn't give to have Andor here now sorting out this mess.  
"I wonder what you'd make of the inquisition. The inquisitor is an elf, and a mage, like you. Though he doesn't come from a circle, he was one of the wild ones, the Dalish. Seems they recovered from all that werewolf business."  
He paused, running an absent hand through his hair.  
"He's offered the mages an alliance. Seems very big on mage freedom, I suppose he would be given he's technically an apostate. Not like you, in that respect."  
He recalled the times Andor had spoken of the circle. Always so matter of fact, so stoic. Mages were dangerous, they had a duty to protect the rest of Thedas, to control their powers. Always with his duty.  
"Having them with the inquisition keeps them away from the civilians, stops them causing trouble. And I can't help but think... would it really be so bad for mages to be free? I know you said they needed to be controlled, but Andor andraste damn me if I've ever met a man more in control of himself than you. Don't they deserve the same chance as the rest of us? We've all seen what a mage can do when given the opportunity beyond their towers."  
He drifted into silence for a moment, his thoughts wandering far until something dragged him back to the present.  
"I suppose time will tell. I've got enough to deal with, with the sky ripped in half and demons popping out of every corner. Though it very likely won't be my problem soon enough."

He seemed to pause, hunching his shoulders and staring at his lap, wringing his hands.  
"The dreams... they've started. It all came on so suddenly, so much for my 30 years eh? Maybe the blight accelerated things. I suppose it doesn't matter why or how, the end result is the same."  
Part of him envied Andor for never living long enough to hear the calling, as strange as it seemed. Though he supposed the man had suffered nightmares enough during the blight, and he certainly didn't envy the conscious dreaming of mages that he had described.  
"It's like an itch you can't scratch, always at the back of your mind. If I sit and listen long enough I can hear the singing. It's.... beautiful, and terrifying."  
And there it was, as he sat in the empty quiet of the night. The song.  
It whispered from somewhere far away, just on the edge of his hearing but never louder or softer no matter what he did. It was enough to drive a man mad.  
"I have my duties but... I won't hold forever. Eventually I'll have to make for Orzammar. Better than a slow death to wasting madness."  
He thought back to their treks through the deep roads during the blight. They say that Orzammar is emptier during a blight, when all the darkspawn are on the surface instead. He shuddered to think how many were down there now, and he found a morbid part of his mind planning out the best spots he had seen on that first trip. Where he wanted to die.  
But he couldn't afford to think like that, not yet.  
"At least Anora will still be around to rule the kingdom. Fereldan could do worse. And she can get herself another husband, perhaps squeeze out an heir after all."  
He spoke it like a fantasy. A far off dream he never expected to grasp. Someday, somehow, someone else would take charge. Do a better job. It wouldn't rest on him anymore.  
"I did my bit right? Stopped the civil war, ended the blight. I was never made for this."  
It was the admission he'd made to Andor so many years ago, right before the end. He would never be a good leader, a good king, no matter what others would say. But he tried. Maker how he tried, against it all, to do his duty. It was enough by now, wasn't it? Enough to earn his rest.  
Finally he sighed and stood, dusting the dirt from his legs and pulling the hood of his cloak back over his face. He took once last look up at the statue before he began a slow walk back to the castle, the rising sun colouring the sky red and gold. He always preferred silver and blue.  
"I'll join you soon, brother. Wait for me."


End file.
